Conversations with Dead People
by Blacklash
Summary: Five years after Endsong, and Scott still can't let go. For that matter, neither can Jean.


**Conversations with Dead People**

She appeared at the same time as she did every night. Scott Summers could set his watch by it. 11:30 p.m., on the dot, every night, without fail. The warm scent of her favorite perfume filled the room, and it was almost heartbreaking how unfamiliar Scott found it these days.

"Hello, Scott."

Scott lifted his head from the pillow and blindly fumbled around for his glasses, only to realize he'd already put them on half an hour earlier. Anticipation, perhaps?

"Hello, Jean."

The bedside light switched itself on – not an uncommon occurrence with her around – and Scott saw her standing where she always did, a vision in white and gold, crowned by a halo of flame-red hair. Green eyes smiled at him in a way that still sent sparks shooting through his soul after half a decade apart, and Scott found himself wondering what he'd done to get so damn _lucky_ all those years ago.

"Where's Emma?" Jean asked, her voice faltering on the last syllable.

Scott glanced involuntarily at the recently-vacated pillow to his right, where the faint but still discernable impression of a female form lay, accentuated by a stray blond hair. A different perfume wafted up from the right half of the bed, cold and icy and sharp, and Scott absently remembered it was Dior.

He looked back at Jean, and for the first time, he noticed her tear-streaked cheeks, and how bloodshot those welcoming green eyes actually were. A single glistening droplet slipped shyly from the corner of her eye, igniting into a wisp of flame before she could wipe it off.

"Jean… are you okay?"

"No… I mean yes, I…" Jean's gaze traveled to Emma's side of the bed, and Scott's eyes couldn't help but follow hers. Still the golden strand lay there, mocking him with its mere presence... or was it condemning him? Scott glared at it, wanting to brush the damn thing away, but somehow found he couldn't.

"Emma's always been able to get me like this," Jean continued, wiping away tears Scott couldn't see. "She gets under my skin. Makes me vulnerable. I don't know why."

_Of course you do._

"I'm sorry," Scott said, seemingly for the thousandth time.

"It's okay," Jean assured him, seemingly for the thousandth time.

"No it's not," Scott replied. "Jean, I… what we had-"

Jean held up her hand. "Scott, are you in love with Emma?"

Scott hung his head. "Yes."

"Then this is the only way it could've ended."

"We should have found a better way."

"Like what?" Jean laughed bitterly. "Magneto still would've killed me, Scott. Would you have my tombstone mark the death of all humanity? I've seen that future. It's… it's not worth it."

"I could've… Emma and I could've waited-"

Jean shook her head. "Without her, you would have lost heart. You would have walked away from her, and the world would have gone to hell."

"You don't know that," Scott insisted stubbornly.

"Yes I do. Scott, I'm _Phoenix_."

"And I'm an X-Man. And I say the future is what we make it."

"Yes, it is." Jean smiled sadly. "And this future is in no small part what _I_ made it. Why do you think you _didn't_ walk away that day? Why do you think you kissed Emma at my grave?"

Scott stared blankly. "What are you – how did you know-?"

"Cosmic matchmaker, that's me."

Scott's mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out for a while. When he finally spoke, his voice was tinged with betrayal, though he didn't exactly know why. "You. You made us do it. Jean… I… how could you-?"

Jean turned away, and her expression was unreadable in the shadows. "The future needed it, Scott."

Scott's voice rose. "You don't get to make that decision!"

"Then who?!" Jean's face whipped back, and her eyes locked onto Scott's and refused to release them. "I was the only one who knew what had to be done and had the power to do it. My happiness against the fate of the Earth. Way I see it, I was the only one who _could_ make that decision."

"Damn it, Jean, these are our _minds_ you're talking about. Our _lives_. And you stand there talking about trades and balances like some goddamn cosmic shell game. Is that all we are to you, Jean, is pawns?"

All traces of indignation fled from Jean's face. "Scott… how could you say that? I could never… _would_ never-"

"Yeah, I… I know, I just…" Scott bent down and rubbed his forehead, mostly to avoid looking into her eyes. "I'm sorry. Things have been… rough, since you died."

"I know. I wish I could've been here."

"Me too. I miss you like hell, Jean."

"Now now, what would Emma say?"

"Honestly? She'd probably hug you." Scott laughed. "We're in a pretty bad place right now, Jean. We could sure use your help."

"I'm sorry. I've tried to come back, but this universe is too broken for me to enter. Wanda Maximoff's spell made it all but impossible for me to manifest without going insane. I'm just not strong enough yet."

"Too much cosmic stuff. Stop making my head hurt, Red."

"All right, Slim, all right."

Silence fell. Scott almost wanted to cry – for a moment, it was like the last few years had been nothing but a bad dream. It was easy, so devastatingly easy for them to fall back into their old routine, that it only made reality hit that much harder.

Surprisingly, Scott was the one to break the silence. "So, Jean, why did you come?"

"11:30 every night, Scott. It's sort of a ritual, in case the last 364 days haven't tipped you off."

"It's been a year? Since we started doing this…" Scott searched for the right words to describe it. "Oprah-confessional thing?"

"Yeah. Happy anniversary to us."

"Yeah." Scott looked at his wedding ring on the night table. Jean still wore hers over her golden glove. Jean's gaze met Scott's, and they both grinned sheepishly, nervously, so like the teenagers they had been when they first met and at the same time so completely different. And for a while, they just sat there, looking into each other's eyes, searching in vain for traces of the lives they'd left behind.

Finally, Jean looked away, and it hurt so much that Scott felt like all the breath had rushed out of his lungs. "You're right, though, Scott. There is another reason."

"What is it?" Scott asked, curious in spite of himself.

"I… I think I've found someone."

Scott blinked. "How?"

"I was inspecting a chain of damaged realities – sorry, Scott, more cosmic stuff." Jean grinned. "Anyway, one of them had been recently reconstructed, more or less, so I've had to check up on it a lot. One of its protectors noticed me, and after doing his routine interrogation, sort of… asked me out for a drink. He was there in his space police uniform, and I was surrounded by a giant cosmic firebird, and he just asked me out, right there, on the edge of the exosphere. It was kind of funny."

Scott raised an eyebrow. "Is he at least… human?"

Jean laughed. "Yeah. He's actually a pilot too. Brave. Daring. The cockiest, most confident bastard I've ever met. Even more than Logan."

"Bit too much information there, Jean."

"Sorry." If it weren't for the flames, Scott would've sworn Jean was blushing. "I should… I should probably go. Emma…"

"Yeah. Emma." Her name tasted cold in Scott's mouth. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Of course."

As Jean started to fade away, Scott found he couldn't resist any longer. "Wait. Jean… what's his name?"

Jean hesitated for a moment. "Hal. His name is Hal." Then she was gone.

* * *

Emma Frost entered the room she shared with Scott Summers and found her lover staring at an empty space on the wall. The scent of sunflowers teased Emma's nose. She sighed; it had been a year already. Didn't either of them have better ways to spend their time?

"Hello, Scott."

"Hello, Emma," he replied in a clipped, strangled tone.

"Where's Jean?"

"She's fine. She's… she's found someone."

Emma raised an eyebrow as she approached the bed. Not that it mattered; Scott still wasn't looking at her. "Logan?"

Scott shook his head. "Someone from another reality. Some space-police guy."

"Of course. I should have known." Emma shook her head. "She was just too good for this world, so she window-shopped the Multiverse until she found the perfect trophy boyfriend. Typical."

That got his attention, and he finally turned around to look at her. "Emma…" he said, raising his voice in a warning tone.

"Yes, I know, respect the thrice-martyred Jean Grey, X-Woman Supreme. I am a very bad mutant who should not mock dead people. So sorry, dear. Won't happen again." Emma batted her eyelashes in a way that suggested no sincerity whatsoever.

Scott glared at her, but Emma held his gaze evenly. She had a feeling he was considering ripping his glasses off and just blasting her with every last bit of power his optic blasts could muster, but even if he did, it wouldn't matter. She'd endured far worse from him already.

Emma had long ago established that Scott and Jean weren't sleeping together; apparently, Jean was still too morally upright for something as petty as asking Scott to cheat on his girlfriend. Which somehow made it worse.

Mostly, they just talked, about things that Scott could not or would not talk about with his very-much-alive lover, but clearly had no trouble sharing with his dead ex-wife. Quite a reversal from when Jean had been the unapproachable spouse and Emma the relatable mistress, and she knew it. No, the irony was not lost on the former White Queen, nor was it appreciated.

"Let's… let's just get to sleep, Emma." Scott peeled off his T-shirt, and Emma got a good look at his bare chest for maybe five seconds before it disappeared under the covers. Emma slipped into bed beside him without a sound. She draped her arm over him and pulled him close.

Didn't matter. He was looking away again.

"Scott…"

"It's nothing."

Emma sighed. "Scott, Jean's moved on. Why can't you?"

"I don't know."

That night, Emma Frost fucked Scott Summers harder than she ever had before. Not out of love, not out of desire, but out of desperation. She _needed_ passion, she _needed_ intimacy, she _needed_ to feel his warm body against hers and grind her way into blissful, crying oblivion. Anything to stave off the despair that already had her by the throat and was threatening to wring the life from what remained of her heart.

The one she loved was in love with someone else. Someone worthier and more deserving of his love. Someone whose very existence exposed Emma as the flawed, wretched human being she truly was. She was, always and forever, destined for nothing more than second best.

It brought her no comfort whatsoever to know that Scott Summers was thinking the exact same thing.


End file.
